Flow Like Water

People think television is the root of all evil, devils creation to brainwash us. Others, to the contrary, think the glowing box is a wonderful source of entertainment and information. Smack dab in the middle of this curve are the people who realize that television isn’t the end-all, be-all, and that it can be both a temple of worship and shining example of blasphemy , depending on the content beamed forth. Personally , I think I fall into the latter category.
I realized there are many more constructive things to do with my time, yet I’m still drawn to the television like those people who crane their necks and slow to a crawl checking out highway wrecks. I have yet to develop the self-discipline to deflect the tractor-beam-like pull of the TV, but at least I feel like I watch “quality” programming. Call it rationalization, or even denial. You can even call it no big deal, since the majority of people in this country are glued to the glowing screens anyway. But the point is that during one of my “quality” television-viewing sessions, I saw something that changed the way I look at biking. It was a documentary in the life of martial arts master and movie star Bruce Lee, call A Warrior’s Journey.
True , I could have spent those two hours actually pedaling instead of vegetating, but in hindsight, I feel it was time well spent. The highlight of the show for me was when Bruce Lee was being interviewed about his theories on fighting techniques. Having studied philosophy in college, Lee had a creative analogy to describe it. He stated that the goal was to be like water, since it has flow, a continuity of movement. Water conforms to the shapes that contain it , and it moves smoothly around or crashes over objects in its path, depending on their shape. It constantly adapts its path to follow the most continuous one.
Although Lee was describing methods for optimizing flying kicks, rapid-fire punches and sparring with opponents, it’s a theory that applies just as naturally to riding. As strange as it sounds, when tackling a tricky rock garden or a tight, boulder-strewn technical turn, imagining how water would flow through the area somehow helps the two wheels beneath me float safely between the jagged granite slabs and carve the proper radius through the next turn.
But for some inexplicable reason, when I think about the ideal application of the water theory, as applied to bikes, I envision a ribbon of perfectly buffed singletrack. I see the rhythm of moving from twist to turn, shifting weight and lean angle from left to right; tire’s side knobs grappling the terra firma, teetering on that razor’s edge between the limit of adhesion and imminent disaster; pumping from apex to apex, momentum pulling me toward the next corner like a big rubber band. Continuity of movement, TV not included.

Inspired by Stickity-Stizle